


incense and stars

by behot



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clovis is a clueless simp, F/M, Jealousy, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, canon-typical bigotry against clones, who doesn't respect women but what else is new, wolffe eats your soup then eats you lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behot/pseuds/behot
Summary: It’s very obvious he’s not going for another drink, however, as he grabs your wrist and leads you out one of the side exits. His grip is bruising, and you almost have to jog to keep up with his pace as he takes you down the empty hallways. There’s an air of anticipation as he gets further away from the gala, a tension sparking from where his skin touches yours.
Relationships: CC-3636 | Wolffe/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 121





	incense and stars

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep pronouns neutral for y'all. Enjoy ;)

The table you sat at in the mess was surprisingly empty, considering it was roughly the standard time most troopers sat down to have lunch. Most of the mess hall was empty, in fact, save for a few stragglers and yourself. **  
**

It wasn’t until you had a few spoonfuls of soup that you remembered that the 104th was on Coruscant, your flagship in for repairs, giving the troops a few precious days of leave. Most of the men were planetside, resting in the barracks there, probably eating lunch in the general mess or leaving to find a restaurant that served clones. 

It left an odd lull, but it was one you didn’t quite mind. Not having to worry about anything happening that demanded your attention was nice, peaceful even. You find yourself smiling into your next spoonful of soup at the quiet. 

Quiet, that is, until a datapad comes slamming down on the table in front of your bowl, and Commander Wolffe slides into the seat in front of yours. 

“Look at this.”

Almost peaceful.

You set your spoon into your bowl, but take a moment to look at the disgruntled commander before grabbing the datapad. His hair was ruffled, which was odd for the usually put together man, and his typical expression of long suffering was less long and more suffering than normal. But something about his eyes told you he was worried about whatever it is, more than anything usual. 

The usual, of course, was endless blaster fire and killer battle droids, so something to worry him was definitely something to worry you.

“What is it?” You question, eyeing the datapad warily before picking it up. He just levels you with a look of _I just told you what to do, now do it_ , so you sigh and unlock the datapad to read whatever it has to say.

_CC-3636_ , it starts, and you scoff.

_Your presence is cordially requested at the Grand Galactic Republic gala, being held in the senate rotunda. The gala is being held to honor you and the Grand Army of the Republic, to express our deepest gratitude for your sacrifice…._

It continued on for a page, with flowery words and a clear expectancy for an answer. You skimmed through the end, scrolling back up to the top to see that above his invitation were two more.

Being soldiers on the front line, it was very uncommon to be on Coruscant during any sort of senate formal event. Especially uncommon to be there during an event that required a Jedi presence. Unheard of to be an event seeking a clone that wouldn’t be a part of the guard. 

Yet, there on the datapad, was the time and date for a gala in the senate rotunda, inviting you, General Plo, and Commander Wolffe to attend. Some sort of press play, you were sure, a meaningless party inviting some clone commanders so they could say they were celebrating in the name of the troops. Something to say ‘no, look! Just because bills aren’t being passed for their rights doesn’t mean we don’t care!’, something for the public to sigh with relief at because then they don’t have to pretend to care either. The invitation for Wolffe was a clear formality that conveniently doubled as good PR. 

Or, excuse you, invitation for _CC-3636_. They hadn’t even bothered to use his name.

You toss the datapad back to him and rest your face in your hands, not bothering to look up at the sound of it hitting the table. 

“Not to sound like a bitch,” you begin, to which Wolffe raises an eyebrow, “but it sounds like they’re only inviting you for the press.”

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered, picking up the datapad and looking through the message again. You rub your hands against your face before looking back up, to see his long suffering look had turned to just suffering. 

“The invitation includes a dress code,” he mutters. You snatch the datapad out of his hands, and look over the message again for yourself.

“ _‘Dress code will be formal attire for admittance-_ ’, kriff, do you even own a suit?” You don’t look up again, continuing to read the end of the invitation you skimmed before. While you’re reading, Wolffe takes the moment to grab the bowl of soup from in front of you and take a few spoonfuls. 

_Dumb karking Republic and their karking Senators and the karking gala’s, expecting shit like this, pretending to be grateful even though they keep denying them rights. The di’kut of a chancellor sending him a Direct Message to invite him when he hadn’t even eaten lunch yet-_

“ _‘Unfortunately, you are one of the final guests who have not yet sent in a reservation, so you will not receive a plus one invitation for this gala-_ ’ ha! This message isn’t on mine or General Plo’s invitation. They really aren’t slick-” you continue through the message, waving one hand in the air to emphasise your words, and he glares into the bowl of soup he’d stolen. 

_He’d be the only clone invited as a guest, at least from the 104th. Typical._

_……did he even own a suit?_

“-they just don’t want you to invite another brother, another clone, because force forbid-” 

You’re still ranting as he grabs the bowl of soup and stands up, looking up to watch him push in his seat and turn away. “Commander?”

He takes a bite of soup before responding, already walking away. “I need to speak with the General.” 

You nod at his back, before looking down to the table and doing a double take. 

“That was my soup! Wolffe! You took my soup?” 

He doesn’t stop or turn back, and you slam the datapad onto the table as the door slides shut behind him. Whatever troopers that had looked up at the yelling were quick to look back at their own trays. 

“Asshole!”

It takes some time, and quite a few credits, but you and Wolffe finally find something to qualify for _formal attire_ in one of the stores just below the senate high levels. 

Most stores that offered fine silks and fabrics, incredible handmade pieces, were just too expensive. Others would raise a fuss at the man beside you, insisting that they couldn’t sell anything to a clone. So all in all, the little boutique was a very lucky find; they welcomed both of you in with no word about a policy on clones, and the prices were still going to bleed your wallet dry, but it wasn’t the _put you in debt even if you sold your kidney_ prices of the other shops.

Wolffe had wanted to just go with the first suit he saw and be done with it, but you somehow managed to get him to try things on to find something flattering. You helped him find a nice grey suit that fit him nicely, along with a tie and a little handkerchief to complete the look. 

In return, he helped you pick out a few different outfits, and you ended up choosing a lovely two piece. It was a flow-y silver ensemble that you had assumed was a dress until the pants had fallen off the hanger in the dressing room. 

“Hey, does this look okay? Does this look like a dress?” You call out before walking out to the sitting area, and he has to take a moment to remember how to breathe when you come into view. 

“Yes, the dress looks like a dress,” he responds, coughing awkwardly into his fist. “And it looks…..nice.”

Incredible. Exquisite. Tempting. Breathtaking. Other adjectives he could use but wouldn’t, not now. You smile at the compliment, and give a little twirl.

“Well, it’s actually pants - can you believe it?” You let out a laugh, before shoving your hands into the pockets. “And hey, it’s silver, so at least we’ll be matching. A united front against whatever bullshit this gala will bring.” He rolls his eyes at that, and you just laugh and go back to change.

It wouldn’t be quite as glamorous next to the exuberant luxury of the senators, but at least the two of you would look somewhat dignified.

The week on Coruscant passes quickly, as it usually does, and soon enough Wolffe finds himself standing next to his General as different senators he won’t remember the names of come up to thank him for his service. It’s somehow both stressful and boring, having to make small talk with dignitaries who just see him as a number. 

“I’d just like to thank you so much for your service to the Republic. It’s a very honorable fight, don’t you think?”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I thought you were a part of the guard, I didn’t know clones were invited to these kinds of things…”

“Your hard work and sacrifice will have you written in the history books, Commander…um, what is your number again?”

You were definitely right - inviting him was just a play for the press, giving thanks to him just to make everyone else feel better. Grand parties were meaningless when he was one of the only clones in the room not hidden by a helmet. Grand gestures were empty when the same senators voted again and again to deny him and his brothers basic sentient rights. 

As the night stretches on, he feels his grip on his champagne glass continue to get tighter. He hadn’t seen you all evening, having been separated at the entrance. There were just too many people in the crowd, too many who had wanted to come up and talk with him, he hadn’t had the chance to try and find you. 

You were in a similar position as he was, sweet talking senators until you could find an excuse to get away. There were a few decent conversations, such as when senators Amidala and Organa discussed their latest plan for pushing the Clone Rights bill with you at length. There were a few guests, however, you could have done without talking to. Senator Clovis was certainly up on that list, from the first smirk he gave you across the room.

Of course, you had made eye contact, which he took as permission to walk across the floor to talk with you. He joins you at the table of refreshments you were stationed at, picking up one of the champagne flutes to hand to you. 

“My lady, might I just say you look absolutely breathtaking this evening?” He flirts as you take the glass from him. You smile a polite smile, hoping your eyes weren’t betraying just how much you wanted to pour the bubbling liquid down the front of his expensive silk tunic.

“Why thank you,” you reply, looking away to look out at the crowd instead of him. He took a step closer, clearly not taking the hint.

The conversation continues, just as dry as it started, with him continuously getting too close, until another senator steps up to the table and calls out in greeting. Taking the opportunity, you excused yourself to find the clone Commander you’d arrived with.

It takes a minute, but you manage to find him on the balcony, just in time to watch him slam a whole flute of champagne as a man you don’t recognize walks away. You raise an eyebrow as he all but slams the glass onto the railing, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What was that about?” You question, setting your own champagne flute next to his empty one. He sighs and shakes his head. 

“He said that I was, ah, very attractive for property of the Republic. Meant it as a compliment, I think.” He takes your full champagne glass and slams it back, the action in contrast with how calm and steady he kept his voice. “ _Kaysh mirsh solus_.”

You don’t understand what that translates to, but you’d heard it enough in the mess and training rooms to understand it was some sort of insult. 

“I was gonna complain about Clovis, but wow, that’s a lot worse.” Wolffe slams the flute next to his empty one, and grips the railing. “Hey, you do look good, though. Really good.”

He looks back at you, eyebrow raised. “Thank you. You look beautiful,” he says, golden and artificial eyes looking you up and down. “Incredible.”

Your breath catches at his tone, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how defined his muscles are underneath the silk button up, and how the lighting makes his eyes shine as he looks you up and down, and how hot it really was even out on the balcony-

Behind you, a voice calls your name, and the moment is gone. You look back to see a certain senator walking towards the balcony, and grit your teeth. 

“Speak of the devil,” you grumble, before smiling a wide smile and holding out your hand for Clovis to shake.

“So we meet again!” He jokes, and Wolffe tries not to roll his eyes.

Clovis takes your hand, but instead of shaking it, he holds it up to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. A soft blush colors your cheeks, and you take your hand back as quickly as possible. Wolffe’s grip on the railing tightens.

“So we meet again,” you laugh, wondering if he’d see it if you wiped your hand off on your pants. “Senator, this is Commander Wolffe, commander of the 104th,” you introduce. “Commander, this is Senator Clovis.”

“A pleasure,” he greets, holding out his hand. Wolffe clenches his jaw, but takes his hand and shakes it, giving him a curt nod in response. The party was just only a few more hours, you told yourself, as Clovis turned back to look at you before he had even pulled his hand away from their handshake. 

“For all we’ve been talking, I can’t say I’ve seen you around the senate building before,” he starts, leaning against the railing next to you.

“You wouldn’t see me there, I’m stationed with the 104th battalion, we don’t often come planetside,” you respond. His eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting that answer. 

“Oh? That would certainly explain it. So, a soldier, then?”

Wolffe is oddly silent as Clovis talks to you, tensing up every time he makes a move to get closer to you. It’s a tension the senator somehow doesn’t feel as he keeps flirting, a tension that is finally snapped when Clovis brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear and Wolffe knocks a champagne glass off of the railing. 

“My apologies,” he says, his voice tense. “My arm….slipped. I’ll go get another drink.”

You take the opportunity to leave as well, backing away from Clovis and un-tucking your hair.

“I’m going to get another drink as well. Until next time, Senator,” you say, not waiting for a response as you grab Wolffe’s arm and walk with him back into the building.

It’s very obvious he’s not going for another drink, however, as he grabs your wrist and leads you out one of the side exits. His grip is bruising, and you almost have to jog to keep up with his pace as he takes you down the empty hallways. There’s an air of anticipation as he gets further away from the gala, a tension sparking from where his skin touches yours.

“Wolffe, not that I want to go back, but what-” your question is cut short as you turn another corner and his lips press against yours. 

The kiss is rough and messy, all tongue and teeth as he presses you up against the wall. His hips are sharp against yours as his hands abandon your wrists, one going up to the back of your head, the other moving to hold your waist. 

Everything about it was sharp and needy, the way his teeth tugged at your lip before moving down to scrape your neck. How his hand curled into a fist in your hair and tugged back your head. The way he wedged his thigh between your legs before shifting his hips up to press you against the wall again. _He’s jealous_ , you realized, as his actions made you dizzy with desire. He demanded your attention be there with him, reminding you that you were his, his, his. 

Your hands shoot up to his head as he bites into the juncture of your neck, pulling at his hair. The growl he lets out against your skin goes straight down your spine, a flash of arousal that makes your breath hitch. He bites at that spot again, and drags his tongue from there up to your jaw. 

“Mine,” he whispers into your ear, teeth skimming the skin, and another shiver goes down your spine. 

Wolffe moves his hands to slide up your sides, your blouse bunching up with the movement. They’re warm against your skin, burning a path up your body as they tug your shirt over your head.

“All mine,” he repeats, wasting no time in kneeling down and tugging off your pants and underwear. His patience had gone some hours ago, you think, spent dealing with senseless senators and dignitaries. 

You’re quick to pull your feet out of the flowy garments and kick them away from you, and he grabs your thighs to pull your legs further apart. Your hand moves down to card through his hair, anticipation curling your toes. It’s certainly a sight you’d never tire of seeing, the commander on his knees. 

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, and your other hand shoots up to cover your mouth as pleasure shoots through your body. He carefully scrapes his teeth against your clit, before closing his lips over it and sucking harshly. You can’t help but cry out, clenching around nothing as his tongue flicks the sensitive bud. 

The sound he makes is obscene as he sucks at the slick of your arousal, his eyes locking with yours as he licks it from his lips before moving back between your legs. He licks a stripe between your folds before pressing his face closer and pushing his tongue into your entrance. 

Your hips buck forward, chasing the pleasure, but he’s quick to pin them against the wall with his forearm. His muscles flex wonderfully as he keeps you pinned, not letting you have any control as he fucks you with his tongue.

It’s almost unbelievable how fast he works you up with just his mouth, with how messy and rough he was with his movements. Just as you can feel your approaching climax, he pulls away. A whine leaves your throat, but any other complaining quickly dies when you watch him take two of his fingers and suck them into his mouth before pushing them into you, and _oh_. 

His pace is almost punishing, fingers sliding in and out, curling against a spot that makes your eyes roll back and your muscles contract.

“You’re only mine.”

It’s fast and filthy how he fucks you with his fingers, and the message is very clear. Only he’s the one that can please you, the only one who can taste you and fuck you like this. He was taking you up against the wall, quick and dirty where anyone could turn the corner and see him claiming you as his, only his. 

Wolffe’s mouth joins his hand, tongue flicking against your clit, and you come hard over his hand and face. 

His arm still holds you against the wall as he works you through your orgasm, walls clenching around his fingers as he adds a third one, his pace not slowing. The warm pleasure of your release quickly turns white hot, and your back arches against his hold in an attempt to find some sort of reprieve. 

“Wolffe!” You gasp out, and your hands shoot to his hair, nails scraping his scalp. It’s sharp pleasure bordering on pain, but you can feel a second orgasm already building behind the first one. It’s overwhelming, your senses burning. There’s nothing but him, all around you, inside of you, and you can only repeat his name under your breath. Desperately, like a plea, but you couldn’t tell if it was for him to stop or to keep going. 

Your second release is sudden, shooting fire through your veins, his arm pinning you to the wall the only thing keeping you up as your knees buckle. He pulls his mouth away, opting to suck at your thigh as he works you through your orgasm without overstimulation, his ministrations gentle as you come down from your high. 

He presses a kiss to your thigh as he pulls his fingers out of you, and you watch as he stands up and sticks them into his mouth, sucking your release off of the digits. Then he’s kissing you, messy but gentle, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

“I’m all yours,” you finally manage to respond, breathless as he pulls away. He kisses your nose, and grabs your bottoms off of the ground. His hands are slow as he helps you redress, skimming along your skin as he smooths out your shirt, and he leans in to whisper a promise of continuing once back on base.

“We aren’t done yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kaysh mirsh solus - "he's an idiot", literally translated to 'his brain cells are lonely', a Mando'a insult  
> This was my first smut so feedback would be appreciated lmao  
> Also posted on my tumblr @behot, feel free to check me out! <3


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